The Out Crowd
by Dinogeek
Summary: Elementary school AU. They weren't expecting anything to be different about fourth grade except the teacher. Man, were they wrong. Who knew all it took to make true friends was a bunch of bullies, an abusive father, a pair of Icelandic brothers, and all the kids nobody wanted?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My brain had some downtime and this came out of it. I'm just as confused as you are... I know there are high school AU's out the wazoo, so I decided to go for something a little different this time and stick 'em all in elementary school. XD This is also the first time I've dipped a writing toe into the Avengers fandom, so hopefully I don't blow it. Reviews are very much appreciated, and enjoy! ^-^**

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To say that Tony Stark was bored would be the understatement of the current geological era. He was more than bored- he was _bored, _mind-numbingly, bone-crushingly, can-we-please-have-an-alien-invasion-or-something bored. He didn't see why he had to go to fourth grade anyway; he already knew everything he was learning. But here he was, stuck in math class surrounded by idiots and 'learning' his multiplication tables for the next hour. He sunk into his desk with a scowl. He couldn't wait for this day to be over with.

Sitting a row behind him and a seat to the left, Bruce Banner couldn't make time move slow enough. It wasn't as though he was really learning anything either- he'd known his multiplication tables by _second _grade, let alone fourth- but the longer he was in school, the longer he wasn't home. And in Bruce's book, that was a very good thing. At least when he was at school he could go somewhere to get away from the bullies. Subconsciously, he rubbed a hand over his ribs, wincing as he pressed just a little too hard on the still-healing bruises peppering his back.

He didn't know that he was being watched by one Natasha Romanoff, who had already finished her assignment and relaxed back into her desk in the back right corner of the classroom. She had chosen that spot deliberately; it gave her a view of everyone in the class, and if there was one thing Natasha liked, it was knowing what was going on around her. Her green eyes narrowed as she caught the flinch. It was the fourth one she'd seen him make this week. She sat up a little straighter and pushed her red hair back, catching a pair of sharp eyes across the room.

Clint Barton was Natasha's best friend and partner in crime, so to speak. He had taken the back left corner for the same reason she had, and the two had mastered the art of silent communication. He saw Natasha sit up and nod her head towards Bruce and he glanced at the quiet boy, raising his eyebrows questioningly. She poked her ribs and mimed wincing, to which Clint raised an eyebrow. She pointed to Clint, her eyes, then Bruce, and the blond boy nodded quickly. _'I'll watch him.'_ When they had finished their conversation, Clint turned his eyes to the ceiling. He wanted to find a new way into the vents.

At his seat in the middle of the front row, Steve Rogers was trying very valiantly not to sneeze- again. And he failed- again. His skinny shoulders sagged in defeat as he once again stood up to grab a tissue from the teacher's desk. Friggin' allergies… He kept his back up ramrod straight as he walked past a group of kids sniggering and trying to trip him. No doubt they were laughing about his sneezing, or his old clothes. That was one of their favorite topics- but it wasn't his fault that all his parents could afford was clothing from Goodwill. He ignored them like he always did. It didn't matter what they thought; he had his honor and that was good enough for him.

At that exact moment, two children, a pair of brothers, waited in Principal Fury's office to get a tour of their new school. The grumpy principal had gone off to find someone to show them around, leaving the pair alone for a moment. The older one looked to his pale younger brother and smiled. _"Er allt í lagi með þig, bróðir?" _The dark haired boy nodded.

"Yes, I'm fine. Remember, Thor, _pabbi _wants us to practice English now." Thor smiled at his younger brother, reaching over and ruffling his smooth dark hair while Loki squirmed in his seat, giggling under his breath. The two children straightened up with unrepentant looks as the door opened and Vice Principal Hill came in.

"Loki, come with me and I'll take you to Mr. Sitwell's class, okay? Thor, you go with Principal Fury and he'll drop you off at Mr. Coulson's class." The brothers squeezed hands once before they went separate ways.

* * *

Phil looked up as his classroom door opened, sparing him from having to organize the most unruly group of fourth graders he'd ever had for at least a couple more minutes. He let out a wide smile upon seeing Fury. "Ah, hello Principal." He spotted the towhead looking around the room curiously. "I take it this is my new student?" Fury nodded.

"Mr. Coulson, this is Thor Odinson. Thor, this is Phil Coulson, your teacher." Phil was moderately surprised when the boy shook his hand; most kids just stared at it like he had the plague, or something worse, like cooties. The only other exception was the Stark boy, who did whatever he wanted to, along with anything and everything that popped into his head. Phil smiled down at the boy, who he noticed was tall for his age.

"Hello Thor, it's nice to meet you. I'm looking forward to having you in my class. Now why don't you follow me up to the front and you can introduce yourself?" He tried to settle the kids politely, but after ten seconds of complete failure he simply resorted to drastic measures and whacked his ruler on the chalkboard, startling the group into silence. He smiled at them. "Thank you. Now if you'll all pay attention, I'd like you to meet your newest classmate, Thor Odinson."

"That's a weird name," Tony piped up, earning himself a glare from the teacher. "Where are you from, Thor?" If the blond boy was offended by Tony's bluntness, he didn't show it, giving everyone a beaming smile.

"I am from Iceland. And my name is not so unusual there." Okay. So maybe he had been a little bit offended. Fortunately, Tony seemed to receive the message and didn't ask any more questions. When it became obvious that their Q&A was going exactly nowhere Phil gave up on the idea and sent Thor to the desk to the right of Bruce, the only one left open in the classroom.

"Okay everyone, hand in your multiplication tables please," Phil instructed them. Hypothetically, they had an orderly system for handing in assignments. But realistically, he was dealing with a roomful of nine year olds, most of whom didn't really get along. He sighed to himself as he shuffled the papers into the closest semblance of a pile he could manage, thinking over the situation. Most of the children had already formed a circle of friendships, and then of course there was Tony, who even at his tender age could charm birds from trees. But there were a few he was worried about. The ones that never seemed to have anybody to fall back on or just be with. He could see something in them, but for the life of him he didn't know how to bring it out.

There was a way to bring those kids together. He just needed to find it. He shook his head quickly, ridding himself of his thoughts. He would think of something. He hoped.

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**Just FYI, the Icelandic sentence is 'are you ok, brother?' and _pabbi _is the word for 'daddy' (as opposed to the more formal word for 'father').**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Oh hi, people who think this story's worth reading! Have I mentioned yet that I love you a whole lot? Well, I'm mentioning it now. I love you a whole lot. So, things are progressing slightly. Steve and Loki bond over being douche magnets, Clint acts like a little shit, and Coulson is totally willing to call his bluff. Also, it's nearly two in the morning and I should be doing that thing sane people call sleeping. Should be. As usual, reviews will be answered and are much appreciated. Enjoy! ^-^**

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Loki Odinson had only been at this new school for one week, but that was all the time it took for the bullies to find him. He was small for his age, and he didn't have Thor's physical prowess or easygoing nature to back him up. Even back in Iceland he had been a prime target for them, preferring the library to the playground, and many times he was saved only by his quick wits and quicker words.

But there were more of them in this new group than there were back home, and as such they were harder to avoid. That was how he found himself panting outside the gym building, dodging a pair of fourth graders who seemed to be out for his blood. He looked around, assessing his chances; they were not exactly fantastic. The teachers were all on the other side of the playground and Thor was playing soccer at the opposite end. Finally, Loki decided that his best option was simply to hunker down and wait it out. Maybe they would give up, or move on to somebody else.

No such luck, of course. They found him five minutes later, and though he fought valiantly he was out-numbered and out-matched by the older children. They were careful to avoid his face, but the rest of him was soon sore and out of breath. They moved off five minutes later, leaving behind one very bruised seven year old trying- and failing- not to cry. He didn't even hear the footsteps behind him until Steve sat down across from the small boy.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry about them. I promise not everyone here's like that." The younger boy looked at him glumly and Steve realized his words must have sounded pretty hollow. He tried to make a joke. "Don't worry, though, they won't be back 'til they've beaten _me _up. I'm one of their favorite targets." Loki finally raised his eyes, which Steve noticed were a startling shade of green.

"Why do they fight with you?" Steve shrugged.

"I'm an easy target. I've got a whole bunch of medical problems and I'm skinny and I'm poor and I never know when to quit. So, I don't think I've seen you here before. Where you from?"

"Iceland," Loki answered quietly, deciding that Steve seemed trustworthy. "My older brother, Thor, is in the fourth grade. I'm in the third."

"Oh yeah, Thor's in my class," Steve interjected. "He sits next to Bruce. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It is alright. He's nine and I'm seven."

"If you're only seven, shouldn't you be in second grade, not third?" Loki nodded.

"Yes, but I skipped a grade. That was back in Iceland, because the principal said that they don't do that here, but since I'd skipped one already it was okay." Steve nodded.

"Yeah, I think the only reason Tony Stark's not in high school yet is 'cause Principal Fury is making him stay with his age group. Lord knows he's got the attitude for high school. So why did you move here all the way from Iceland?"

"My _pabbi _is a businessman, and his company sent him here to be some exectu- _executive_ person," Loki explained, tripping over the unfamiliar and foreign word. "When he moved, we moved with him."

"Cool," Steve replied. "You know pretty good English. Have you been learning it for a while?" Loki nodded. "Well, I think it smells kind of bad back here, don't you? Why don't we go and play on the swings? It is recess, after all." The dark haired boy looked at him like he'd grown an extra head.

"What about the ones who want to fight with you?" Steve shrugged.

"Like I said, I don't know when to quit. Besides, they're gonna come after me anyway, and I'd rather have a little fun first." He grinned and grabbed the younger boy's hand, pulling him along as they made a break for it across the schoolyard. The two giggled as they made it to the swings. It was like playing superspy, evading capture by enemy forces long enough to make it back to home base. From there, they were close enough to the soccer field that none of the bullies could go after them without causing a scene. They were safe- for now.

"That was fun," Steve remarked as he caught his breath, "but it wasn't very good for my asthma. Oh, by the way, my name's Steve Rogers."

"My name is Loki Odinson," Loki replied. "Are we friends now, Steve?" The blond boy nodded.

"I think we are. Want to meet at recess every day?" Loki nodded. In the distance, the bell sounded, signaling the end of freedom and return to drudgery for another few hours. All the children scrambled across the playground and lined up by class to return to their rooms. Going down his line making sure that everyone was there, Phil sighed as he saw- or rather, didn't see- a familiar sight.

"Alright, Miss Romanoff, where's Clint?" The red head looked at him innocently (_too_ innocently, he thought) and shrugged. Phil did a quick scan of the playground. Nothing on the swings, nobody on the slides, he wasn't along the back fence line like he's been that one time… The other students' giggling tipped him off. Phil turned around and looked to the roof. "Barton, get down from there and get in line!" Any other teacher would have had a heart attack at the sight of one of their students clinging to the drainpipe like a lawsuit waiting to happen, but Phil knew that, at the very least, Barton had sure footing. After all, the boy had all but been born in a hunting stand.

"What if I don't?" Clint called down, apparently deciding that there was no limit to how far he would press his luck that particular day.

"Well, Mister Barton, if you don't then I will personally ensure that you spend a month after school cleaning every chalkboard in this building. Or, better yet, I'll go get Principal Fury and see if _he _can talk you into coming down." The little boy's eyes narrowed.

"You wouldn't," he said accusingly.

"I so, so would," Phil replied, pulling out his phone and making a show of dialing the office number. He made it all the way to hitting the call button before Clint's resolve cracked.

"Alright, alright. I'm coming down, sir." He was down the drain and back in line before Phil could even hang up his cell phone. He smiled at his wayward pupil.

"Thank you, Mister Barton. Since you came down on your own, that will only be _two _weeks' detention instead of four. And I wouldn't suggest arguing with me about it." He turned to the rest of the students, most of whom were stifling giggles. "Alright, let's go back inside."

At the back of the line, Clint was grumbling to his best friend about (what he perceived as) his totally unjust punishment. "I mean, come on, two weeks? That's, like, forever, Tasha!" She whacked him on the back of the head.

"Oh hush, Clint. You're lucky Mr. Coulson didn't call Principal Fury in for you. He'd have had your head up on a spike for that!"

"For what, Miss Romanoff?" The first thought that ran through Clint's head was, _so this is how I die. _Standing behind them and looking thoroughly unimpressed was none other than Principal Nick Fury himself. He gulped audibly. Yep, he was totally screwed...


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Clint gets to practice his backpedaling skills and proves that he is, indeed, the master of subtlety (/endsarc). Also, I should point out that apart from Bruce and probably Tony, none of their backstories are going to be the same as in the comics. I'm trying not to make them too wildly different, but they will be... more cheerful, definitely. Anyways, I'll shut up now and leave you with a plead for reviews like I always do. Because I'm kind of like a lamprey in that respect. ^-^**

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Clint had already made his decision; when the principal was done killing him, Tasha would get everything he owned. His bow, his arrows, his Game Boy- well, that was pretty much all he owned apart from his clothes, and he didn't think they were really her style. He could be wrong, though… A clearing of a certain instructor's throat wrenched him back into reality and he gave Fury his very best deer-in-the-headlights look.

"Well, Miss Romanoff? Would you care to tell me what Mister Barton has done to raise my blood pressure yet again?" Tasha looked to Clint, than shrugged in apology. He didn't blame her- it was wise to pick your battles.

"He was climbing again. On the drainpipe going up the side of the main building." Fury stared at her until she continued. "And he wouldn't come down when Mr. Coulson told him to." The principal turned to glare at Clint, his one eye narrowing. There was a lot of speculation among the children of Marvel Elementary as to how exactly their principal had lost his other eye. The most popular one was that he'd been fighting a bear- and the bear had died.

"Thank you for your honesty, Miss Romanoff. Now go tell Mr. Coulson that Mister Barton here is going to spend a little quality time in my office." _I'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdead _was all Clint could think as he tailed behind the principal, mentally writing his eulogy. He'd had such a short life… Too soon for his liking, they arrived at Fury's office and were seated on opposite sides of the desk. "So, Mister Barton, do you want to know what I'm angry about? I'm not angry about the climbing- I'm not happy with it, but I know a lost battle when I see one. You want to know what I'm angry about? Go on, guess."

Clint's eyes were as wide as a bird's. "Um, well, was it ignoring Mr. Coulson, sir?"

"You're close, Clint. You see, what you ignore someone who's trying to help you and is, while you are at school, completely in charge of you, well, I personally find that to be _very _disrespectful. And I do not appreciate little kids who think that can get away with disrespect, Mister Barton." He leaned forward, fixing Clint with a glare that made him quake in his boots. "So you see, this is where the problem lies. And I fully expect to see a complete, one-eighty turnaround from your current behavior, Mister Barton, and I expect to see it so fast that you leave a little shadow made of dust like they have in the Saturday morning cartoons. If you don't, I will tell your father to hang your little butt up in the hunting stand until you learn to listen. Am. I. Clear?"

Clint nodded so hard and so fast that he just about put a crick in his neck. He had no doubt that his father would go through with Principal Fury's plan in a flat second, and he didn't exactly relish the idea of being stuck up there until he ran out of his (not inconsiderable) well of stubbornness and apologized. "Yes sir, you're very clear. I'll apologize to Mr. Coulson. And listen to him when he tells me to get down. I promise." _I might actually live through this, _he thought to himself.

"Well, I look forward to seeing that happen, Mister Barton. Now you can go back to class, and after school you can start serving off _this _detention. Now get your behind out of my office and into your desk." Clint fled the office like his pants were on fire. When he got back to the class, Natasha was standing by the pencil sharpener. She looked at him curiously and then proceeded to poke him in the chest.

"Huh." She raised an eyebrow. "You're actually still real. I figured you were a ghost now or something."

"Very funny, Tasha," Clint grumbled as he got in the sharpener line behind her. "I thought I was going to be after that. He threatened to have dad hang me in the hunting stand by the seat of my pants." Tasha gave a very un-ladylike snort at that mental image. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I've still got two weeks of detention- _again_."

"You can use that to your advantage though," Tasha pointed out as she stepped up to the sharpener.

"Huh?"

"Bruce Banner has detention too," she replied meaningfully. "Tony Stark talked him into throwing a spit wad at Justin Hammer and Mr. Coulson saw him doing it."

"So how come Tony Stark doesn't have detention?" Tasha shrugged.

"I don't know, maybe he talked Bruce into saying it was his idea or something. Anyways, he's been flinching a lot and he keeps moving like his side hurts. See if you can figure out why." Clint frowned.

"What makes you think Bruce'll say anything to me? We don't even look at each other most days."

"Well _obviously _it won't work if you don't even try." They couldn't delay sharpening their pencils any more so they both retreated to their desks for the rest of the day. Clint kept mulling Bruce Banner over in his mind. He wasn't sure why Tasha had taken such an interest in him- after all, the boy barely spoke a word, never interacted with anyone outside of school, and seemed to _try _to be ignored by everyone around him.

But still, he had been friends with Tasha long enough to know that she had a reason for whatever it was she did- well, most of the time. She had always kept things close to the vest, and Clint never pried, knowing that she would tell him what was up when she got around to it. The two had met in kindergarten when she ambushed him from behind after he tried to make off with her jello. She had put him in a surprisingly good headlock, called him a sneak thief, and then pouted at him for about ten seconds before saying that he was actually very good at being a sneak thief and would he like to be her friend?

He had, of course, said yes the second she asked. The two were alarmingly similar; they both loved fighting and weapons. They had both been raised to be as independent as possible. For Clint, it was because his family were all avid hunters; the boy had all but been born with a bow in his hand and he'd spent more time in a stand than he had in his bed. Natasha, on the other hand, well, her family was a little bit _different. _Her parents were Russian immigrants and, as she would proudly tell any who asked, paranoid survivalists who were raising their only child to be able to survive any life-or-death situation that could possibly crop up. She already knew how to shoot a gun, and she was darn good at it too.

They knew the other kids tended to steer clear of them, but they didn't mind. They each had a best friend, and that was all they needed. They could care less what anyone else thought. The second half of the drudgery seemed even longer than the first, but it was probably just because Clint really freaking hated cleaning chalkboards. He sighed expansively as the bell rang and the other students hurried to the bus lines, except for Tony Stark who had some guy that came to pick him up every day. Tasha whacked him on the back of the head as she left, a not-so-surreptitious signal to remember the mission. He stuck his tongue out and gave her a look.

He dragged himself out of his desk and up to the front, planting himself on the floor by Bruce in what he hoped was a casual manner. "So Banner, I hear Stark talked you into doing time for him- again." The littler boy shrugged.

"It's no big deal. I did throw the spit wad, after all." He frowned suddenly, confused. "Hey Clint, why do you call everyone by their last names?" Clint shrugged.

"I dunno, I just like it. 'Sides, I don't call Tasha 'Romanoff' all the time, do I?" Bruce frowned again.

"Well, no, but you don't call anyone else by their first names, like, ever." Now, Clint was a good boy (generally) and a smart child, but he was young and headstrong and subtlety was not his strong suit at this point in his life. He shrugged.

"Like I said, I just like it. So what have you been whacking your side on all week?" Bruce paled visibly, brown eyes widening behind his glasses, and Clint realized that he might have just possibly maybe picked the wrong angle to approach the situation from. Sure enough, Bruce closed up like a clam.

"Uh, nothing," he said evasively, looking in the other direction. "Just clumsy, is all. Keep bumping into things."

"Like what?"

"Like, uh, doors and tables and stuff." Bruce kept fidgeting and Clint scowled as Mr. Coulson came in, putting the kibosh on any further conversation.

"Okay Bruce, you're going to be washing this hall. Clint, you get the first and second grade. And no complaining- your mother was ready to make you do third, fifth, and sixth as well. Now grab a sponge and a bucket and get your behind down there."

"Yes sir," Clint muttered, still staring at Bruce. Now he _knew _the smaller boy was hiding something. But what was it, and more importantly, how many wild horses would it take to drag it out of him?


End file.
